


resonant chamber

by anethicalbutcher



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Ficlet, Hello!, M/M, POV First Person, hannibal's POV, it's kinda weird IDK MAN, this is my first fic here for this fandom so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-12-18 13:36:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18250922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anethicalbutcher/pseuds/anethicalbutcher
Summary: "When I was four years old, my father used to take me to his country club. Cigar smoke was the fog that made these moments a waking dream, and finely-upholstered leather-back chairs became the bed of my new fascination."Hannibal recalls his childhood, and the experience that shaped one of his interests.





	resonant chamber

**Author's Note:**

> so i was reading _my secret garden_ by nancy friday (a neat read), and in this little miscellaneous section there was this story about someone who's earliest fantasy was about this bassist they met when they were really young; for some reason i decided to write a weird little ficlet based on it. i'm not one to try and explain or expound upon the psychology of any character, but hannibal's past is so mysterious that it's fun (and easy) to play with.
> 
> come say hey on tumblr at [anethicalbutcher](https://www.anethicalbutcher.tumblr.com/).

   When I was four years old, my father used to take me to his country club. Dark, elegant, I became accustomed to fine meals and entertaining sips of whisky. Cigar smoke was the fog that made these moments a waking dream, and finely-upholstered leather-back chairs became the bed of my new fascination.

   Saturday evenings, dances were held periodically throughout the month, at least twice. They had a quartet (occasionally a quintet), all adorned in smart black wardrobe, the trappings of musicians meant to be heard and not seen. Too young to join, I'd spend my time in those large barrel chairs, idly picking at the smooth, stiff surface; my parents would dance, my mother's dress cascading around her ankles, and my eyes would inevitably drift to the band. 

   There he'd be, head bowed as if in prayer, dark curls surrounding his finely-shaped face, his jaw with stubble like my uncle's. His lips would press together, and his lashes flicker as he pulled the bow across or delicately plucked the strings with strong-looking fingers. The sounds that double-bass made were only enhanced by his beauty; draped over the wooden body, the tones were gravid and longing. I was sure it was what dying must have felt like. 

   At some point along these weeks my father took note of my interest, and introduced us. His hands were very calloused; I do not recall his name. I like to think about him taking a candy out of his pocket to give to me, but I cannot remember whether it was actuality or wishful thinking. I never remember what he'd said, but I'd always remember the sound and shape of his voice, a low, gruff sweetness that went through me like vibrations through a metal pole. His beautiful mouth! I imagined the way my mother and father expressed love with their mouths, and later wondered if I would express the same sentiment to him, though I would not understand its significance for a few more years.

   My obsession with him started to take hold; every time I visited, I would seek him out, and every day apart I would count down the days to see him. It became so severe that almost every night my thoughts would be consumed by him, and I'd imagine him coming into my room and stealing me away in his large, sturdy case, tucked safe inside like a womb. I never thought of what we would do after; as I grew older, these thoughts would begin to take more form (earliest on, innocent visions of sitting by the lakeside, feeding the swans).

   I didn't see him again after the war, but his figure stayed in my mind. Coming upon the edge of manhood, many times did I bring his body to the forefront, spending hot nights alone with the image of his strong hands and bent head. After my immigration to France, and from thereafter, I took note of every dark-haired musician that I happened to meet (particularly bassists); I was undeniably attracted to every single one, and bedded as many as possible. None of them could compare to him, to the man who kept me company whenever I was by myself, his passions and his sensitivities. 

   I was bereft at this loss. Though I had many contented relationships after, his soul still burned in my memory from time to time. I would never recover from it, and resigned myself to a fate of incompleteness, until most recently. I've taken up a job with the Federal Bureau of Investigations; there, I've met a man who has at once reawakened my passions and mind. 

   Sitting there, eyes lowered, I could swear to have seen a halo of light encasing those dark curls, those limpid, ruminant eyes. He was the very image of him, like he had leapt from my dreams, burnished with every waking detail, thunderously crafted from Pygmalion's own clay. What I experienced in that moment was nothing short of awe. God so far has owed me very little, and yet He deigned to let me have Will Graham, to let me look upon his face like an anemone turned to the sun. I realized at once that I was to devote my life to him. I realized I was to have nothing else in my life, to ravish him unlike anything else, to steal him away and worship him. I would offer a life for him just to turn his eyes to me, and I would happily lap away at the leather of his shoes, if only he'd ask.

   My precious, cunning man; his hands were strong, and I wondered if he'd ever played a double-bass.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks


End file.
